


Moving Day

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-30
Updated: 2010-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the end of the second month, Matt came to understand that what he'd thought was just a bit of a crush on the larger than life cop that had saved his life was actually… probably… definitely… love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's SmallFandomFest, for the prompt "helping hand". Prompt submitted by ozsaur.

"There's a shirt underneath the dresser," Lucy observes.

"Toss it to me, would you?" Matt asks, and when Lucy doesn't even glance up from her magazine, he huffs out a breath. "This is your idea of helping? Because I gotta tell you, Luce, on a scale of one to ten, you're kind of at a minus seven."

Lucy heaves a put-upon sigh as she flips to the next page. "No," she says, flicking her eyes briefly to his before turning her attention back to the article she's reading. Matt figures it's probably something like 'How to Emasculate a Man in Three Simple Steps' or 'Ball Breaking Made Easy.'

"My idea of helping," she continues, "is driving the car. You know, that thing that I volunteered to do? Surprisingly, scrounging around in your fleapit of a room and stuffing your dirty clothes into a box is not my idea of a fun Saturday afternoon."

"You won't help pack it, but that doesn't stop you from mocking all my shit," Matt mutters under his breath as he limps over to the dresser and stoops to pull out the T-shirt. He stops to lean against the bureau, cursing softly. The physiotherapist keeps telling him he's getting better every day, but Matt thinks the physiotherapist is a lying sack of shit.

And, well, he really does need Lucy to drive the car. Between his bum leg and John's bum shoulder, neither of them is actually able to operate a motor vehicle yet, though _between them_ they might be able to manage it. Not that being on the temporarily disabled list has stopped McClane from doing much else.

 

_"Who's going to do it?" John had looked him up and down sceptically. "You?"_

"I could!" Matt protested immediately. His knee, of course, chose just that moment to let him down, performing one of those spectacularly sudden buckling moves that had him teetering to the left and pin-wheeling his arms for support that wasn't there. And then it was_, because John had smoothly stepped forward, wrapped a strong arm around his waist and held him steady._

"You okay, kid?" John had said, close enough that his breath stirred Matt's bangs, close enough to raise goosebumps on his flesh, and with John standing that close Matt really wasn't okay, not at all, not even a little bit. But he had murmured his assent anyway; quickly agreed to let McClane do the heavy lifting up and down the four flights of stairs during the move. He extricated himself as carefully as he could from John's grip before he embarrassed himself -- before he embarrassed both of them -- and limped heavily to his tiny guest bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

He had been halfway to the bed before he remembered the old photograph. He considered leaving it the way it was, but he'd just been held in John McClane's arms and he knew what he had to do now -- had to, really, and as quietly as possibly -- and seriously, there was no way in hell he could ever get off with that staring at him. He had limped back to the bureau and turned the framed McClane family portrait to the wall before reclining carefully on the bed, still able to feel the phantom imprint of John's big hand on his hip -- and he'd absolutely imagined that John had hesitated before letting him go, that John had gripped him just a little tighter before releasing him, because he's always dreaming up shit like that, his imagination has always been fertile and it's a total curse. Just like he couldn't still smell John on his skin, because that shit only happened in really bad romance novels. And just like he didn't close his eyes and imagine John's broad scarred chest and wry smirk when he wrapped his fingers around his cock and thrust into his hand, biting his lips to keep the torrent of words inside, just like he did every single minute of every single day.

 

"Honestly, Farrell, you couldn't wash your clothes first?"

Matt blinks; scowls at the smiling-happy faces in the framed photograph as he pushes away from the bureau. "Laundry room's in the basement, remember, McClane? Or, I'm sorry, is it Gennero today?"

Lucy looks suitably abashed at the reminder of the first, and Matt almost feels like marking a little "one" on his mental scoreboard, but her eyes narrow at the second and he feels the minor victory slide from his grasp. He never does remember when to keep his mouth shut.

"And I wasn't mocking your shit," Lucy says pointedly, and Matt really, _really_ wishes he could learn to some kind of brain-to-mouth filter, because knowing the McClane genes she just might be two point five seconds from walking out the door. But then she grins. "Not that you have much shit to mock."

"Yeah, the whole 'fiery explosion reducing my apartment to rubble' thing tends to cut down on material possessions," Matt says dryly.

"True," Lucy agrees. "Replacing everything must be a bitch. Though seriously, Farrell. A _Dell_?"

 

_John had been trying hard to maintain that stoic exterior that he was famous for, and actually doing a pretty piss-poor job. A full month of sharing his space practically 24/7 had enabled Matt to pick up on a lot of subtle signs that other people probably didn't catch. _

Now? McClane was excited.

"Well?" John had prompted, when Matt had simply stared at the box, mouth agape.

"It's a… computer," Matt had replied, though really, saying a Dell was a computer was like saying a matchbox car was a Formula One racer. He was pretty sure he could hear Warlock laughing already.

"Yeah," John said. "I know you lost all your gear when your place went up in smoke and the Feds are giving you a hard time about the money--"

"No, man, I'm totally cool about that," Matt had interrupted. The 50K would have been nice, but when you play a part -- even a small, unwitting part -- in nearly causing the apocalypse? Yeah, he so wanted no part of that money, or anything to do with Thomas fucking Gabriel.

And seeing John nod once, seeing the look of approval in John's eyes? He had been pretty sure he'd do anything, say anything, to keep that look there.

John had rested a large hand on the box. "I thought you could use this until you start working again and can start replacing everything you lost," he had said.

Right. The Dell. Matt had come back to Earth with a thump. Well, he supposed he could use it to check his email, at least. "Thanks, John. I mean it. It's awesome that you thought of me."

John had scowled then, brushed awkwardly past him to reach into the fridge and snag them both a couple of beers. "Just trying to give you something to do to keep you out of my hair, kid."

Matt hadn't been able to resist. Who would?

"What hair?" he said.

 

Matt glances at the offending CPU with a grimace. "Yeah. Don't ask. And if your father says anything, I _love_ it."

Lucy arches a brow, but says nothing as she tosses her magazine aside and rises from the chair. She indicates the boxes on the bed with a jut of her chin. "So that's all of it."

Matt nods as he follows her gaze. Eight boxes. He's moving with eight boxes and a pile of charred books, with no job and a parental loan to cover first and last months rent in his bank account. He recalls moving in to his first place after college when he had even less than that, and it didn't matter because there was the excitement and the exhilaration of being on his own. Now he feels only dread, and a weariness that feels seeped into his bones.

"So," Lucy says. "We should go."

No. Absolutely not. "I guess so."

"Uh huh," she says. Her eyes narrow as she crosses the room to heft one of the boxes onto her hip, and Matt would say something about the way she's breaking her 'no carrying boxes' rule except that he's too busy shifting uncomfortably under her watchful look.

"Farrell," she says, "you know that my dad doesn't want you to leave."

 

_The shower would wake Matt every morning, and he'd stumble out of bed and get the coffee going, maybe crack a couple of eggs into the frying pan. Over breakfast they'd talk about the plans for their days, which for John usually meant catching bad guys (or at least doing the paperwork involved in catching bad guys, and cursing his "limited duty" status), and for Matt usually meant… well, absolutely nothing, at least until the Feds took the cuffs off. So it just made sense that Matt would be the one to take out the recycling, pick up a few groceries, get dinner started. And Warlock could make as many cracks about "the little woman" as he wanted -- and okay, so he wasn't even supposed to be talking to the Warlock, and the rates at the ISP Café were ridiculous, but man, a guy could go crazy if he had to go cold turkey -- and anyway, Matt discovered that following a recipe wasn't actually that hard. And he actually liked cooking, and more than that, he liked sharing the meals he cooked with John._

And sure, at first he tried to tell himself that it was just a nice payback to McClane for letting him stay rent-free until he got himself sorted out. And if Matt also got the added bonus of spending time with John and discovering how to make him laugh so hard that he spit kung-pao chicken all over the table? It was win-win, really.

But by the end of the second month, he'd come to understand that what he'd thought was just a bit of a crush on the larger than life cop that had saved his life was actually… probably… definitely… love. That was when he knew he had to move. Because that larger than life cop? Straight. Straighter than straight. And Matt Farrell was a lot of things, but he wasn't a fool.

"…so I found this really cool place in Camden."

"Isn't that an oxymoron, kid?"

"Funny, McClane. Ha," Matt said while trying not to squirm. The living room of the apartment he's going to rent is the size of John's bathroom, and Matt keeps telling himself that the thing he saw flash by in the hallway had to be a cat, because rats absolutely do not grow that large. He shoved his hands in his pockets to still their jittering, and tried desperately to find the bright side in his new place. Surely there had to be one.

"It's pretty okay, really," he continued. "There's a kitchen, with a… there's a stove, for sure. And there's a bathroom. And… laundry! On the first floor, and I'm on the second, so it's pretty… convenient, is what it is. And! On a bus route, which is also convenient. So."

John busied himself with adjusting the placement of his badge on the sideboard before slanting him a glance. "It'll be quiet around here for a change, that's for sure."

"Yeah." Matt smiled sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I had this imaginary friend as a child, but even he took off when I wouldn't shut up."

John had looked up at him then, and when John McClane gave you that laser stare it was kind of nerve-wracking and kind of awesome all at once. "It'll be too quiet," John had said.

Matt had shifted, tried for light-hearted to assuage the guilt he felt at striking up a friendship, giving John someone to come home to and then ripping the carpet out from under him. "I'll still be coming in to the city for my physio," he had said brightly. "We could still get together."

John just looked at him, and Matt could feel himself wilt under the force of that stare.

"I mean, we could go for a beer. Or something," he had floundered. "When I come into the city. If you want to."

"Sure," John said shortly, and when he looked away Matt found that he was able to breathe again. "You want to watch the game?"

"Absolutely!" Matt had enthused, following John into the living room. "I would love to watch the game! Now… is this the game with the tall men and the giant ball, or the game with the guys in tight pants who like to touch each other's asses?"

John had smiled tightly and flicked on the set, and though Matt had mocked the game with much gusto -- it had turned out to be basketball, and Kobe Bryant is such a showboater that it's almost too easy -- John didn't really talk much after that.

 

Matt hates the thought of John being lonely, seriously hates it. But he hates the thought of hiding who he is and what he feels even more. And he'd rather stick a spork in his eye than give Lucy even an inkling of what he's really thinking.

"I am perilously close to knowing the lyrics to every John Fogerty song in existence," he tells her instead. "Believe me, it's time."

Lucy sighs. "Men," she mutters. "Farrell, my dad likes you."

"Yeah," Matt says, and isn't that what makes it even harder? He and McClane genuinely get along.

He's gotten through the month of scouring the classifieds and trudging through endless shoebox-sized apartments by deliberately _not thinking_ about how the kitchen only had to be big enough for one because John's not going to be there, standing next to him, watching him rip apart the lettuce and adding too much cayenne to the spaghetti sauce when he thinks Matt's not looking. Telling himself that a loveseat will fit in the new apartment just fine, because John's not going to be stretching out there, falling asleep watching the news, and John's not going to be there sitting on the edge of his seat and shouting at the TV screen while a bunch of lanky guys chase a ball across a field. John's not going to be there, watching dumb old black and white movies and introducing Matt to Bogart and Cagney and Wayne and getting him addicted to stupid westerns and gangster movies.

John's not going to be there, and the thought of it makes his throat close up and his chest get tight.

Matt turns away, fiddles with the power cords on the pathetic little Dell. "Yeah," he says again. "I like him too."

"You are such a dumbass," Lucy says, and okay, he's kind of gotten used to Lucy insulting him on a semi-regular basis, but the _way_ she says it makes him turn around to face her. And sure enough, she's looking at him like he's one of those special kids that eats the paste.

"Farrell," she says. "He _likes_ you."

"Yeah, I… Wait. What?"

Lucy rolls her eyes, sets the box deliberately back down on the bed so she can free up her hands, all the better for ticking off her points like the schoolmarm to his special needs child. "He's got a fridge stocked with energy drinks and pizza pops because you like them. He bought you a computer, and he's actually learning how to use his email. He never goes out to O'Malley's after work anymore--"

Matt blinks. "How did you know--"

"--and he brought you to Jack's birthday dinner, and how you missed the looks getting passed between mom and dad over that I'll never know. And finally," she says, "he cannot stop staring at your ass. What does this add up to to you, Farrell?"

Matt shakes his head. He's pretty sure he's having an aneurysm. "Wait," he says again, slowly. "What?"

"Jeeeeesus," Lucy says, "do you need me to draw you a diagram? Maybe convert it into a mathematical algorithm? Will that make it a little clearer?"

"Uh," Matt says. Maybe it's not an aneurysm. Maybe it's a stroke. Or a heart attack. This could completely be what a heart attack feels like. He's vaguely aware of Lucy's hand on his shoulder, nudging him toward the door, and of his feet moving as though they're not actually attached to his body.

"Go," Lucy says. "Talk to him. If there's one thing you know how to do, Farrell, it's fucking talk."

* * *

He finds John sitting on the sofa, head bent over the sports page, but he glances up when Matt comes into the room, sets the paper aside before standing up. "Ready to go?"

Matt's never been at a loss for words in his life, but he has absolutely no idea how to answer that question. Finally he shrugs. "Yes?"

John's mouth quirks, and Matt has to close his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching up to brush his fingers against John's lips. Or do a lot more than that.

"You don't sound too sure there, kid."

"Well," Matt says.

John arches a brow. "Well?"

"I was thinking--"

"Always dangerous."

Matt scowls, swipes his suddenly-damp palms on his jeans as he realizes he has no idea what he's actually going to say. His first instinct -- your daughter thinks you've got the hots for me, which is awesome because I've been wanting to get into your pants for months -- doesn't really seem like it'll fly. But anything less subtle might quickly get lost in translation.

Facts. McClane's a cop, and cops like facts. He'll stick with that. And if Lucy's wrong and he makes a complete ass of himself, he'll have plenty of time later to kill her and run away to Peru.

"I was talking to Lucy," he says. "And she said that maybe you liked me being here. Which is cool, because I've really liked being here. And actually, well, what Lucy said was that maybe you like _me_." Matt takes a breath, and when John says nothing, he soldiers on. "Except of course you like me, you couldn't have put up with me for three months if you didn't like me. Do you know that I went through seven roommates at college -- seven, McClane! -- before they finally gave up and just let me have my own room? And anyway, I thought I was getting pretty good at interpreting the John McClane Handbook, 'cause seriously? You are a tough guy to read. But then Lucy said some stuff, and it's kind of like finding out that what you thought was Latin is actually Greek, or something, and…"

And nothing. John just stands there, eyes narrowed and that half smile on his face that is part amusement, part exasperation, and Matt blows out a breath, shakes his head. Maybe he won't have to kill Lucy, but Peru is still sounding like a pretty good option. "You know what? Nothing. Never mind. My boxes are all packed up in the bedroom, so I'm going to grab one of them -- which I can totally do, thank you very much -- and take it down to the--"

John closes the space between them so fast that Matt doesn't even see him move. One moment he is standing there, Mr. Inscrutable, and the next he is in Matt's space, lips pressed to his, cutting off his words in a tangle of lips and tongue, one large hand twisting in his hair, angling his head just right and then Matt can't really think of anything at all.

"You talk too much, kid," John says when they pull apart.

It takes a couple of tries before Matt can actually get his mouth to work. "Well," he finally says, "I think you may have rendered me speechless."

John's mouth twitches. "Your lips are still moving."

"You might have to try again, then."

John smiles and looks like he will, and Matt nearly bounces on his toes in anticipation. He's pretty sure he owes Lucy for the rest of his _life_, and the fertile imagination that he's always cursing is running full tilt in his head -- thank god for his imagination -- and he's wondering if John even has supplies and if the pharmacy down the block is still open, and…

And Lucy stands framed in the doorway, arms crossed at her chest and a decidedly self-satisfied smile on her face.

"Aren't you glad I came to help today?" she asks brightly.

Matt slants a look at John, who raises an eyebrow at his daughter. "Lucy, honey. Are you okay with this?"

Lucy snorts. "Please, John. I've known you play for both teams since I was ten."

McClane winces at the name, but doesn't look at all surprised by the revelation. He shifts, slings an arm around Matt's waist, and this time Matt isn't imagining that John's grip gets a little tighter, that maybe he wants to hold on as much as Matt wants him to.

"Took _you_ long enough to figure it out," John teases.

"Hey!" Matt protests. "You could have said something. Or, I don't know, thrown me down and ravaged me. I would have caught on, you know. I'm pretty bright."

_Later_, John mouths. Aloud he says, "Lucy, I don't think we'll be requiring your services this afternoon after all."

"Good. I have to call mom, anyway." She pushes away from the wall, bends to gather up her gym bag and grins slyly. "She owes me fifty bucks."

Matt steps forward before John can do more than gape at her. "I'll see you to the door," he says, hustling her away from John's shocked "Lucy McClane!"

"Thanks for everything," he says. "I'll call you tomorrow, and… hey, is that my World of Warcraft guild book?"

Lucy glances down at the book. "I believe it is, yes. I'm borrowing it." She arches a brow. "You have a problem with that?"

"You're going to hold this over me forever, aren't you?"

"Forever is a long time, Farrell. But you can expect to owe me for a minimum of five years."

Matt figures it's a great deal. "Enjoy the book, Gennero."

"Later, Farrell." Lucy starts to leave, but pauses with her hand on the doorframe to call back into the apartment. "And _Dad_? Stop staring at Matt's ass!"

John's rumbling laughter follows her down the hall.


End file.
